It began with an idea and a dream; start a family, build a house and barn and turn them in to a home. The babies came one by one and what was once boards and nails became a home filled with laughter and yes, some tears. Then the children grew up. They left for college or distance jobs. Their life journeys no longer needed the small frame house and old barn. It was forgotten and left to end its journey in neglect and disrepair.

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I don’t want to make life on the Creek seem so hard. Yes, I guess it was but I, along with most of the other kids on that street, learned lessons that are invaluable.

Our life changed abruptly when Daddy died. There was no leftover insurance after Momma paid the funeral cost. Momma had developed a heart problem and diabetes so she had to quit her job at the canning plant. Her face was so sad and is forever etched in my heart the day she came home and told me.

We sat at the dining table eating our supper of watered down tomato soup, that Momma had canned the previous summer, and a pone of cornbread. I felt like I would choke with every bite because I knew whatever I was about to hear could not be good. She patted my hand then broke the news.

She finally stopped talking as she fought the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes, patted my hand and sighed deeply. “Now don’t you go worrying ‘cause we’ll get by. God has always provided for us and He ain’t about to quit now.”

I thought I had an idea and a bright smile spread across my face. “Momma we can do like the Barbersons down the street. Susie says they don’t have to watch their food because they get some kind of stamps from the county and Momma they even get money!”

She shook her head sadly and sighed deeply as she put her hands on the table, pushed to standing then walked to the sink. Her back was to me as she turned on the faucet and filled the big canning pot. Our hot water heater had quit shortly after Daddy died so we had to heat all our water on the stove. “No.” She hefted the big pot and carried it to the stove. “No Caroline, that’s charity and we don’t do charity. Honey, your Daddy would turn over in his grave.”

I was shocked. “He can do that! He can turn over in that tight casket?”

She turned back facing me and smiled, “No, that is just a silly thing folks say when they mean someone wouldn’t like something. But your Daddy was dead set against any kind of charity.”

“But isn’t Social Security charity? Peggy Ann said we’re poor and live on charity.”

“Your cousin has a big mouth and she doesn’t know what she is talking about. The Social Security we get is money me and your Daddy worked for. Now go wash up and get ready for bed.”

I lay in my bed that night and thought about charity and wondered what we were going to do. I already got stomach aches in school every day because I was afraid when I got home someone would tell me Momma had died like Daddy and I would be all alone.

I wondered where were all the aunts, uncles and cousins who used to visit us at the farm. When they came Momma would cook big meals of ham or chicken or roast and all kinds of vegetables. Everybody raved about her hot biscuits. They usually came on Saturdays because everyone knew we were in church on Sunday and our dinner and supper was leftovers from what Momma had prepared the day before. Daddy said Sunday was a day of worship and rest. Even old Hay-Burner didn’t work on Sunday. The only things that kept doing their job were the chickens and I guess they just didn’t care to rest because all they did anyway was eat, scratch the ground, eat some more and lay eggs. So if we had company it was always on Saturday. Momma and Daddy loved those visits.

After we were all full of good food and cold iced tea the men would head to the front porch to smoke or chew. Even though Daddy raised tobacco he didn’t allow one tiny bit in our house. After the women finished the dishes and cleaning the kitchen they would refill their glasses with tea and everyone went to the porch. The rocking chairs and swing were reserved for the ladies. The men would break out their fiddles, banjos and guitars from the trunks of their cars. Then they took sat on the faded gray steps or around the edge of the porch with their feet dangling over the edge. Daddy played the guitar and I thought he was the best but I wasn’t allowed to say so. If there were babies in the crowd the women would rock them to sleep and back awake. We’d sit there and sing until the sky was gray with pale streaks of pink. When they left Daddy would load them down with ham, bacon, sausage and other meats from our smokehouse. He gave them bushels of potatoes and vegetables from the garden. Momma would ease in a basket of eggs. The people left promising to come back soon. Momma and Daddy would stand side by side smiling and waving until the car was down the lane and out of sight.

One time I asked “Why do y’all always want them to come back ‘cause all they do is eat our food and take the rest with’em?”

Daddy frowned and shook his head and anger flashed in Momma’s eyes, the first and only time I ever saw it. “Girl, that ain’t no way to talk.” Daddy stated in a subdued voice. “The Good Lord has blessed us with plenty and it’s only right to share with friends and family. People get greedy and don’t share the Lord could take what they have.”

So now I figured it might be my fault that we were having hard times but I didn’t want to tell Momma because I didn’t want to see that anger in her eyes ever again.

I took this photo several weeks ago and had all intentions of writing a post about it several times. However, other subjects seem to get in the way. You know what they say about good intentions any way.

When I saw this old drive-in movie screen, close to Mulberry Florida, it brought back so many great memories. I’m not sure if they had drive-in theaters up north but they sure were popular in the south. When I was a small girl on Friday or Saturday night my parents would get my sister and me all ready for bed then put us in the back seat of the car and head out to the drive-in. It was a fun time. Momma would make popcorn and hot dogs at home and we brought them along with us. We would have a cooler of soft drinks in the back floor, and she made ice tea especially for me because I prefered tea to sodas. Our parents had to pay to get in but kids under twelve got in free, one of the reason we were allowed to go. There were rows and rows of parking spaces facing the screen; with a pole holding two small speakers separating every other spot. The speaker pole stood between two cars once they were parked. The driver would roll down his/her window and hang the speaker on the door so everyone in the car could hear. It always seem to have a tinny scratchy sound but we did not mind because we didn’t know any better. In the summer when the mosquitoes were bad you could buy a small coil that you would light with a match and put on your dash to chase the mosquitoes away. The flame would die down and the coil smoldered filling the car with a smell that stunk to high heaven. But your momma always insisted you have one in the car. On Saturday nights they usually played a double feature but kept the best movie for the last.

The last row way back in the rear of the parking is where the older kids parked so they could make out. Their windows were all steamed up and everybody knew there was no movie watching going on in that car. You never wanted your parents to find out you parked back there because if they did you were in deep trouble.

Oh the memories that one old theater screen can bring to mind. It was a different age and some say a better time. Who knows? We all make our memories as we travel through life and I hope most of yours are good.

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When I started this blog I wondered what I should write about. Oh trust me I would love to be spurtting out wonderful information about how to create strong characters, outline a manuscript, the best way to get published or any of the informative blogs on the business of being a successful author. But you know what? There is probably at the very least a million people already blogging with that kind of talk and they most likely know more about it than me. And besides it just isn’t my forte. Instead I would rather write about more interesting subjects, like how long it takes for a black wall to fade to gray or how tall grass can grow in a year. You know? The truly interesting stuff. When you read my blog you might never be able to guess what subject I will write about next. Soooo… let’s get started with the story for today.

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I felt I really needed to go and take a picture of the little house on Main Street (pictured above) before it became history? I am so glad that I followed my feelings and went because today I rode past there and they are demolishing the little house. I’m thankful that I have the pictures to show what used to be there when they decide to build a large housing development in its place and the little house will be forgotten. I like to think that if it could talk it would have had some wonderful stories about a happy family. So I will keep looking for abandoned and forgotten houses and buildings and keep taking the photos so at least someone will remember them.

Last week I went on a ride in search of abandoned buildings to take photos. There is one particular house on the main street of Thonotosassa that has stood empty and is slowly falling apart and I wanted to get a photo of it before it becomes history. After taking that picture I saw this lovely little house close by. It seems to invite someone to move in and love it. Then I just drove around in the country and found several places that are interesting and has so much charm and personality. These wonderful places are being torn down and huge mansions, that have about as much character as a hangnail, are taking their place. It is a shame. So many of the new homes look just like the one beside it. Would I feel this way if I could afford one of the mansions? I believe the answer is “yes.” I prefer the older homes with personalities and stories they could tell if only they could talk. I suppose some would say the new homes are progress but what a price for progress. Are we losing our individuality in order to keep up with society in general? I think this is a good question to ponder so I’ll think about it. In the mean time I will keep searching for the interesting old places and keep taking photos so when they all become history at least their memory will mean something to someone.